Deaf folk hear the fairies However soft their song; 'Tis we who lose the honey sound Amid the clamor all around That beats the whole day long.

And though you should live in a palace of gold, or sleep in a dried up ditch, You could never be as poor as the fairies are, and never as rich.

Have you watched the fairies when the rain is done, Spreading out their little wings to dry them in the sun?

There are fairies at the bottom of our garden.

Blind folk see the fairies. Oh, better far than we, Who miss the shining of their wings Because our eyes are filled with things We do not wish to see.

I think mice Are rather nice. Their tails are long, Their faces small, They haven't any Chins at all.

I'm sorry. I use my rapier wit to hide my inner pain.

Quite a metaphor. The person in the most pain wins. Does that mean I get a Blue Ribbon?

Happiness depends on our perceptions and thoughts.

Should we put out the light? And then put out the light. But once put out thy light, I cannot give it vital breath again. It needs must wither.

Each body has its art.

And though the meaning fits, there's no relief in this. I miss my beautiful friend.

When it gets hot like this, you know what I do? I keep my undies in the ice box.

Perhaps our Irish friends should not so completely turn their backs on their historical dishes, no matter how many jokes they might have to endure.

I don't want to be a star. If you have to label me anything, I'm an actor - I guess. A journeyman actor. I think 'star' is what you call actors who can't act.

You fool! You're 30 cents away from having a quarter!